Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“Sure, let’s figure out a day.” I don’t bother telling her it will never happen. Bel is kind and a great friend…but she doesn’t need someone like me as a friend.
“Okay, I’ll text you, and we can figure out a day.”
I give her a nod. “Sounds good.” I watch as she walks right into Drew’s arms.
It’s crazy how different everything is now. The library used to be my sanctuary, back when I was just another honor student with a bright future. Back before I became the campus cautionary tale.
My gloved fingers trace the edge of the desk, counting the nicks in the wood, grounding myself in the reality of now versus then. How I used to share notes in study groups, raise my hand in lectures, and walk across campus without counting my steps or checking door handles three times before touching them.
I suppose that’s what trauma does to you. It takes all your good parts and destroys them, shatters them, so you can never put yourself back together the way you were before. I’m still me, in the same body, with the same skin and eyes, but I’m not me at the same time. Change is good; it’s an inevitable part of life. That’s what my therapist says. And I understand that, but I also wish it didn’t hurt so damn bad.
Returning to campus reminds me of everything that I used to be, everything I used to have. It’s progress, a part of the journey and recovery, but it feels like a punishment in many ways. I pull out my phone and open the calendar app, checking my schedule even though I have it memorized.
Statistics at eleven, followed by British literature at two. Eight hours of classes a week, perfectly spread out to allow for recovery time between social interactions. It’s a carefully constructed house of cards, and one strong breeze is all it will take to send it tumbling down.
The screen blurs as I stare at it, and I realize I’m thinking about last night.
About a dark pantry and a boy who didn’t look at me like I was broken. And how, for just a moment, with his finger tracing my lip and his soft voice caressing my ears, I felt closer to normal than I had in a very long time.
But normal isn’t for girls like me anymore.
Normal walked out the door two years ago, along with my dignity, my future, and any chance of being more than the weirdo who wears gloves, counts her steps, and hides in pantries at parties. I close the calendar app and start repacking my bag. Everything needs to be in its place, in perfect order. I might not have control of my life, but at least I can control this.
A flash of memory hits me as I zip the bag—the sharp smell of antiseptic, fluorescent lights that never dim, my mother’s face crumpling as she signed the admission papers. I grip the back of my chair, nitrile squeaking against the metal.
No. Not here. Not now.
“Breathe through it.” Dr. Martinez’s voice echoes in my head. “Find your anchor points.”
One. The precise weight of my backpack straps perfectly even on both shoulders.
Two. The smooth texture of my gloves against my palms.
Three. The rhythmic tap of my shoes on the tile as I walk—left, right, left, right.
The memory recedes, leaving behind the usual hollow ache in my chest. After that night, I spent two years learning how to exist again. After everyone saw me break apart in the middle of sophomore year. After I became the girl who …
No. I won’t think about it.
I let my traitorous mind drift back to Lee, the misunderstood playboy. He didn’t flinch when I mentioned OCD, didn’t give me that look of pity mixed with fear that I’ve grown so used to seeing. He simply accepted it, like it was as ordinary as having brown hair or blue eyes.
Because of him, I know what it feels like to be seen instead of stared at. To be heard instead of whispered about. It didn’t matter how he made me feel, though. Not when Lee is exactly what I need to stay away from.
Wild, impulsive, always the center of attention—everything that sets off my well-constructed warning systems. I’ve seen him around campus before; he’s always surrounded by drama and desire. Everywhere he goes, chaos follows. The way he touches people so casually, drinks from other people’s cups, and lives life like germs and consequences don’t exist.
He’s a disaster waiting to happen.
No, I decide, pushing through the library’s heavy doors into the summer heat. Last night was a momentary lapse in judgment, a strange intersection of his need to hide and mine. Nothing more.
I adjust my gloves one final time and start counting the steps toward my next class. Left, right, left, right. This is my life now: careful and contained and controlled. Nothing will change that fact. Not even the guy with understanding eyes and a devil-may-care smile. Even if some small, reckless part of me wishes he could.